


Flesh and Blood

by lovetincture



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Omega Will Graham, Omega/Omega, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: “This wasn’t the plan,” Will grits out, still eyeing the matching pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter like they might bite him. They’re lined up parallel to one another, at perfect right angles with the marble countertop, because Hannibal is an asshole. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten. It doesn’t help. “What the fuck, Hannibal.”The plan was that Will was supposed to be the one to get pregnant. It was what they'd agreed on. There was the plan, and now there’s this.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 210





	Flesh and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is exceedingly dark, no two ways about it. I am dead serious about every single one of those tags.

“This wasn’t the plan,” Will grits out, still eyeing the matching pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter like they might bite him. They’re lined up parallel to one another, at perfect right angles with the marble countertop, because Hannibal is an asshole. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten. It doesn’t help. “What the _fuck,_ Hannibal.”

“You know what they say, man plans and God laughs.”

Hannibal looks as smug as the cat who got the canary, and Will doesn’t bother asking who _God_ is in this scenario.

It’s going to be a long nine months.

* * *

After Abigail, Will made his peace with the fact that he’d missed his chance. Not because he’s an omega who’d up and run off with another omega (wanted in all 50 states and a few countries). There are ways around that—IVF, sperm donors—if that was all. Relationships like theirs aren’t exactly common, but it’s 2019. They aren’t unheard of either.

It was, he’s loathe to admit out loud, the principle of the thing. He could never see it as anything other than unforgivably _irresponsible_ to bring a child into this world. _Their_ world. Into their house, under the same roof as Hannibal fucking Lecter. Under the same roof as himself.

They’re monsters, no two ways about it. Will has never really had the aptitude or inclination for lying to himself, and he hasn’t found either in the intervening years.

He’d thought they’d been on the same page—not about the principle of the thing; Hannibal would probably think it was great to raise up a bloodthirsty little psychopath—but about their lack of children. Hannibal didn’t seem like the fatherly type, and Will had assumed it went without saying that they’d live and die with each other. With _only_ each other.

But Hannibal suggests it one night, hands curled possessively over the taut line of Will’s belly, thumb idly rubbing over the scar he’d put there. “Would you like to have a child?”

So polite. Casual as anything, as if he were only asking if Will would like white or red with dinner. Like nothing.

“Yes,” Will says, blurting the word like it can’t make it through his teeth fast enough. As soon as he says it, Will knows with a sinking certainty that there’s no going back on it. He’s never wanted anything more in his life.

And the fucking bastard knows it too.

* * *

So there was the plan, and now there’s _this._

 _Will_ was supposed to be the one to get pregnant. It was what they’d agreed on. Hannibal had suggested it, and Will had agreed with a barely articulated sigh of relief. He loves Hannibal. He does. He’d tried cutting that part of himself free, decapitating it and hoping it would wither in the sun—it didn’t. He loves Hannibal beyond hope and all reason.

That doesn’t mean he wants _another_ Hannibal in the world. Surely a person can only be expected to accept so much, and he’s already accepted more than any sane person would.

He’s quiet, the first couple weeks. Hannibal notices, of course. He peers at Will over the top of his book when they’re sitting across from each other in the living room, glances at him across the kitchen when Will comes in from a run. He doesn’t say anything. For _once,_ he doesn’t say anything, leaving Will alone with his thoughts. Will can’t tell if he’s happy about that or not.

He expected to feel different the instant it happened, as if getting knocked up would fundamentally change something about him. In retrospect, that was a stupid thing to think. The reality is he doesn’t feel any different at all. The list of things he’s willing to eat has grown smaller thanks to the nausea, and he sleeps more than he used to, finding himself napping through sunny afternoons, but he feels… normal. Like Will Graham with a stomach bug.

That will change, he knows. His body will change, and then so will everything else. So will Hannibal’s. But for now it seems almost bizarre that they can walk around as if everything is normal. As if nothing has changed, when everything has.

Hannibal wraps his arms around Will in bed that night. Will tenses, but he doesn’t pull away, and neither does Hannibal.

“You’re angry with me,” Hannibal says.

Will sighs. “Not angry. Well, okay. Maybe angry. Mostly I’m just…” he trails off at a loss for words, trying to find the right ones in the dark. “I’m scared.”

“Of this?”

“Of everything. Of getting it wrong. My dad got a lot wrong. We got it wrong with Abigail.”

“Abigail made her choices.”

Will expects to feel his blood boil—expects to feel it any time Hannibal says her name—but the word passes and he feels just fine. It’s an old wound, scabbed over like so many of the hurts Hannibal has dealt him. It just makes him feel tired, and he can’t tell if it’s this or the pregnancy.

“And you made yours,” Will says.

Hannibal doesn’t deny it.

“There are solutions to unwanted pregnancies, you know. If it truly bothers you.”

Will sits up in bed. “What are you saying?”

“I could terminate my pregnancy, if you have your heart set on our original plan. I confess I was perhaps impulsive.”

“I would never make you do that.”

“And yet I’m offering.”

Will stares at Hannibal in the dark, the distinct profile limned by the soft light that sweeps in through the curtains. It’s hard to look at him right now.

“Go to sleep, Hannibal.”

Will’s heart is pounding, and it’s a long time before he gets any sleep at all.

* * *

He doesn’t _want_ what Hannibal is offering—he doesn’t, but once the idea’s been mooted, it’s impossible not to think on it, like being told not to think of an elephant in a party dress. All he sees are mangled fetuses. Bloody sheets. Natural disasters averted, because what else is a child with Hannibal’s blood but a hurricane waiting to happen? 

He wonders how many lives he would save. He wonders if the baby would have Hannibal’s eyes.

He’s horrified with himself, of course. For wanting it, just a little. For considering it.

He would never make Hannibal do it, but he _thinks_ about it, and isn’t that just worse?

* * *

The thing about Hannibal’s offer is that Will has said a lot of things, but he hasn’t actually said no.

Today they’re in the kitchen, moving around each other in a perfectly synchronized dance while they work on dinner. Hot oil glistens in a pan on the stove, thinning out and spreading as it waits for the vegetables they’re chopping at separate ends of the counter. 

“If you do decide to keep it, you can always change your mind later,” Hannibal assures him, rocking his knife through a neat line of leeks.

It takes Will a while to realize he’s talking about Will murdering their child. The gorge rises in his throat, and he kisses Hannibal to make him stop.

* * *

Will plops himself down on the couch without warning, leaving Hannibal to shuffle aside to make room.

“What if I do want it? The abortion. What if I want you to have one?”

This conversation has started apropos of nothing, but Hannibal is unruffled. He marks his page in the book and sets it aside. “Then I’ll call my doctor in the morning.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He cocks his head. “Were you expecting theatrics?”

“No. I don’t know. You’re the king of theatrics.” He looks down at his hands. He had a friend in college, a girl named Diane. She had a scumbag boyfriend who got her pregnant and bullied her into having an abortion, told her it was the only way they could be together. He dumped her a month later anyway. Will always fucking hated him. He wishes he didn’t feel so much like him right now.

“Did you plan this? Is that why you got pregnant, so I would—was this your design?”

“No,” Hannibal says quietly. He looks away from Will, looks out the window, wistful. “I confess I was hoping to have a child. I was surprised to find that I still could.”

The lump in Will’s throat feels enormous. It’s unfair that this should feel so much like a betrayal against a man who had betrayed him so many times. He wants to take it back, to tell Hannibal to forget it, that they can both have children. That they’ll raise them together. That they’ll be _happy._ He wants to kiss it better, to take it away.

He doesn’t.

“Are you sorry?” Will asks. “That you offered.”

Hannibal sounds genuinely puzzled when he says, “Of course not.”

* * *

“I won’t be able to have receptive sex with you for two weeks following the abortion.”

The abortion. Tomorrow, is the abortion.

“Okay,” Will says.

Hannibal stands there, waiting. The silence could be called awkward, if anything Hannibal did could ever be called awkward. Will doesn’t have whatever superpower Hannibal has that makes him immune to the things normal people feel—shame, regret, the desire to be anywhere but this bedroom right now.

He hates how much he wants to run.

“Did you want me to… do something about that?” Will asks.

“Come here.”

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, and Will follows, sitting beside him, their bodies angled together. He reaches up and cups Will’s jaw with a gentle hand, dragging his thumb along a few days’ worth of stubble. Hannibal leans in and kisses him sweetly, tongue flickering along the seam of his lips.

Will doesn’t want this. He feels vaguely nauseous, the way he always does these days, and the thought of someone holding Hannibal open, someone sucking the child out of his womb and throwing it away at Will’s behest makes him feel sicker still. And yet Hannibal wants this, so it seems like the least he can do, considering.

He could still say no. He could say _stop, I changed my mind. You don’t have to do this._

He doesn’t.

He kisses Hannibal back, parting his lips so their tongues can tangle together.

They undress themselves, and Hannibal stretches out on the bed, skin glowing warm in lamplight. He looks at Will with such adoration, so much that it burns. Will can’t stand to look at him. He clambers onto the bed and seats himself between Hannibal’s thighs instead, rubbing against Hannibal’s opening that’s already damp with slick.

Hannibal widens his legs to give Will room, and Will sinks two fingers into him.

 _How can you be so calm?_ he wants to ask. _How can this not bother you?_

“I wish you could do it yourself, reach up inside me and pull it out, rake my innards with your nails, scraping away tissue and viscera.”

“Jesus fuck, Hannibal.” He shudders but he doesn’t stop fucking Hannibal, plunging his fingers in and rubbing along the spot that makes Hannibal arch off the bed, his heels planted wide on the mattress.

“Without a set of dilators, you would have to cut me open. You’d need to hold me open with a speculum to avoid puncturing my bowels and giving me an infection that would likely result in sepsis.” He throws back his head, lost for a moment as Will presses hard against his prostate, trying to get him to shut up. “The pain would be unbearable.” He pants around the words. “Would you like it if I screamed for you? If I begged you to stop? To spare my child?”

Will bends to take Hannibal’s cock in his mouth, lapping and mouthing along its length, angling it until he can slide it down his throat. And all the while Hannibal keeps fucking _talking,_ and Will wishes he wouldn’t.

“You’d need to make sure to get all of it, or I could hemorrhage. Without the aid of imaging software it could take hours. You’d have to go slow to avoid puncturing my uterus. I might never be able to have children again.”

Will sucks until he can taste the bitter salt of precome, slipping a third finger into Hannibal and fucking him hard. He pretends that’s all the salt he can taste, that there aren’t tracks running down his cheeks, staining the comforter dark. Hannibal moans, loud and unselfconscious.

“I want you inside me,” he says abruptly, twining his fingers in Will’s hair and pulling him up.

Will groans, his body reacting to Hannibal’s, to his mate. He’s hard as anything and dripping slick, and he wants this in spite of everything. He pulls his fingers out of Hannibal and fists his cock, once, twice, coating himself with Hannibal’s slick. He lines himself up and pushes forward into tight, wet heat, groaning and letting his head fall forward.

He braces himself on Hannibal’s splayed knees and starts moving, pushing Hannibal’s legs up for a better angle and sinking himself in as far as he can get. The new angle has Hannibal crying out, meeting Will’s thrusts with little rocking motions that only make him rut harder.

“You’re taking a child from me,” Hannibal says dreamily. “Like I took one from you all those years ago.”

He takes Will’s hand and holds it over his belly with such fondness in his eyes.

Nausea hits hard and fast. Will pulls out without warning, fast enough that it makes Hannibal wince. He makes an excuse and bolts off the bed, slamming the door to the bathroom behind him. He retches into the toilet.

When his stomach is finally empty, he leans his head against the cool porcelain of the toilet and tries to think of nothing.

* * *

Hannibal bleeds the first day. Will knows this because he helps Hannibal into the car, where he bleeds into the seat despite the thick sanitary napkin they’d given him at the clinic. Will finds the pad in the trash later, dark red blood already starting to edge toward old penny copper with oxidation. He brings Hannibal a heating pad and a glass of water and tries not to feel guilty every time he looks at him.

Hannibal is subdued over the next few days. Muted in a way Will finds deeply unsettling. He won’t be drawn out by Will’s attempts at humor, nor sweetness.

On the fourth day he’s feeling better, well enough to walk around.

The fifth day finds Hannibal in their immaculately constructed nursery, throwing things into a garbage bag. _Baby shoes, never worn._ And socks, and onesies, and a stuffed dog Will had bought for Hannibal’s child.

Will doesn’t point out that he’s still pregnant, that those things are still useful, that they’ll just have to buy them again. Hannibal makes eye contact with him, raised brows and a feverish glint in his eye daring Will to say something.

Will doesn’t.

He slinks away with his tail between his legs and doesn’t say anything at all.

On the seventh day Will can’t find Hannibal anywhere in the house, and he panics.

On the tenth day Hannibal comes home.

Will feels as if he’s killed someone, which is funny because he’s killed a lot of someones, and it’s never felt quite this bad. But he feels like he’s killed a child— _Hannibal’s_ child—and it’s somehow so much worse.

 _I can’t take it back,_ he wants to say. _I would if I could._

 _I didn’t know. Neither did you, but I_ didn’t know.

Ignorance isn’t a defense, though. He should know that better than anyone.

* * *

Hannibal sits up as soon as Will walks into the room. He knows what Will’s done the second he lays eyes on him, scenting him like a bloodhound.

There’s a familiar predatory awareness in his eye, the one that’s always made Will think of coldblooded things, sharks and reptiles. It’s the first spark of interest he’s shown in weeks, and despite how rampantly awful he feels, Will’s gut reaction is overwhelming relief. It’s _thank god I didn’t break him._

He sits beside Hannibal, wincing as his ass makes contact with the mattress. No matter how gingerly he moves, he feels it. Even his clothes make him want to scream.

Hannibal opens his arms and Will crawls into his lap, arranging himself in a way that lessens the agony in his belly. It’s the best he can do. Nothing is going to fix the grief lancing his heart.

“The cramps are terrible,” he whispers.

Hannibal strokes the hair back from Will’s forehead. “They will pass.”

He pulls Will closer, to a muffled protest of pain, and doesn’t stop stroking him, carding his fingers through Will’s hair.

Will closes his eyes and sighs, letting himself go boneless in Hannibal’s embrace. “Feels good.”

“Good.”

He’s surprised he doesn’t want to cry. He didn’t think it was possible to feel this awful and not want to cry, but he just feels hollow. Hollowed out and raw, like something made of crackling glass. He thinks, strangely, of the bluff eroding into the roiling Atlantic.

One day this will all be lost to the sea.

“You’re not pregnant anymore,” Hannibal says.

Will blows out a shaky breath. “Got it in one.”

He winces as another godawful cramp clenches through him. Hannibal soothes him for a long time, lulling him with gentle touches and a blessed lack of speech. It’s wonderfully dark in their bedroom. Will thinks of the way animals will slink off into the shadows to lick their wounds. He feels like he could close his eyes and sleep forever.

He’s halfway there, already drifting off when Hannibal gently moves him off his lap. He stretches out beside Will, not touching, not saying anything.

“Why?” Hannibal asks at last.

“Because… It didn’t feel like I thought it would. Taking something from you.”

“No?”

Will lies back and studies the ceiling. “I can’t enjoy it like you can.”

“That’s a shame.” Hannibal rolls his head along the pillow to look at Will. “I would have liked someone to enjoy this.”

It’s so quiet in the house. Will’s brain conjures up the sound of laughing children, tiny feet thundering down the hallway, Hannibal calling with an exasperated voice to please not _run._ The reconstruction of a life not lived. They would have been—not twins, but something close to it. 

Hannibal speaks, and the vivid image fizzles out of existence, insubstantial as smoke. “I was going to name her Mischa if she was a girl, William if he was a boy.”

The sound Will makes is something caught between a laugh and a sob. “I didn’t get that far. I just wanted it to be healthy.” He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He’s not sure if he is. He swallows. “I don’t think I could have hurt you like this, if I knew.”

“So instead you give me your suffering as a gift,” Hannibal muses.

“Even Steven. Do you want it?”

Hannibal kisses him. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
